


Restful Royals Target of Prospitian Plot?

by jadebloods, Neigedens, t34lbloods (perculious)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Dirk's Issues, HSWC, Homestuck Shipping World Cup, M/M, Masturbation, Propaganda, Self-cest, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:25:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadebloods/pseuds/jadebloods, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neigedens/pseuds/Neigedens, https://archiveofourown.org/users/perculious/pseuds/t34lbloods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A routine reconnaissance misson to the Droll's courtyard turns deadly because that <i>other</i> Dirk just doesn't know when to quit. (Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013 Main Round 1: Propaganda)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restful Royals Target of Prospitian Plot?

**Author's Note:**

> This was Team Circledirk's entry for the Homestuck Shipping World Cup 2013 Main Round 1: Propaganda. Originally posted [here](http://hswc2013-r1.dreamwidth.org/4843.html). Below is the expanded version with some extra stuff we had to cut out to meet the word count limit.
> 
> [Bri](http://onecatch.tumblr.com/) (Neigedens) wrote Derse Dirk's parts and the Enquiring Carapacian article, [Ella](http://sfingosella.tumblr.com/) (sfingella) wrote earth Dirk's parts, [Laney](http://mudpiefactory.tumblr.com/) (t34lbloods) wrote the letter from future Dirk, [Sxiz](http://sxizzor.tumblr.com/) (sxizzor) drew the article illustration. [Ketsu](http://ak-english.tumblr.com/) gets an honorable mention for doing some HTML coding for us. [Lala](http://pumpkinkind.tumblr.com/) participated by being adorable and friendleader-y.

Dirk should have known that it was going to be a weird day when a crumpled piece of paper suddenly appeared out of thin air over his face and dropped inelegantly on his nose, startling him out of... well, not sleep, exactly. Instead of sleeping, he'd started going into these weird extended astral plane trances that were restful but definitely not as restful as _sleep_ , either. On top of that, it had started to seem less and less like that other guy, the one in the doofy pajamas, was someone he became when he was asleep and more and more like he was somehow both of them all the time. The effect was disconcerting as hell, like he was constantly looking at film that had been exposed twice, and he wondered if this whole thing wasn't starting to have adverse consequences on his sensorimotor processing.

It just wouldn't do to have a dude's proprioception all out of whack, you know?

He blinked a few times after the note shocked him into alertness, ignoring it for the time being-- these notes were usually more of an annoyance than anything else-- in favor of trying to shake off the other guy first. He focused his eyes on the ceiling above him until it was mostly all that he could see. If he let his eyes relax a little bit, he could see the garish purple of the sleazy Dersite rag and even make out a few words of the tabloid article against the mostly blank white canvas of the stucco ceiling.

Something about… plots. No, socks? Maybe both. Did it matter? Fuck no.

Closing his eyes only made it worse, made the image clearer and brighter, more focused, so he rolled over to his side and stared out the window, watching the sun start to peek up over the horizon to spread gold and yellow over the reflective surface of the ocean. He spaced out for a while, feeling his body for bruises and trying to rub the stiffness out of the long muscles in his arms and legs. Without sleep, true relaxation had been hard to come by, so he had to forcibly remind himself to unclench each muscle before pressing his palm down and sliding it over his skin.

He had to curl up a little on his side to reach his calf muscles and hamstrings, massaging tight knots out of the cordlike fibers and feeling up the back of his legs and down the front, then back up again on the inside, pulling up goosebumps and small shivers as his touch got lighter. He drew his knees up to his chest, stretching the sore muscles of his back and hamstrings, and tucked his hands between his legs. Once there, they naturally gravitated to his dick, which per usual was arguably more awake than he was. He cupped himself through his shorts and held them there, applying gentle pressure and deliberating.

Dirk could have laid there for hours feeling himself up, breathing heavy and slow and then heavy again while drifting in and out of not-sleep, but instead he shook his head and stretched back out, reaching for the bedposts and trying to shake off the morning moodiness. No, if he did that he'd just get frustrated, so instead he reached over the edge of the bed to grab the crumpled piece of paper that had broken him out of the piss-poor excuse for sleep he'd been getting these days. His spine cracked and his muscles felt too warm when he moved around, but luckily it was right there on the floor. Holding it up over his head, partially to block out the purple that still covered his field of vision, he read the mysterious note.

> Hey fuckhead,
> 
> I know I told myself last time that I wasn’t gonna pull this shit anymore, but hey. Shit happens. Or more accurately, you happen. Over and fucking over again. Am I interested in dissecting right now exactly why I have this pathological need to push and nag myself about my fuck-ups even when I know it won’t change shit? Nah. You and I’ve got all the time in the world to dig deep into our collective psyche and work out that particular quirk. What matters is that right now, I’m pissed, and all I can think about is you fucking around not even knowing that you’re about to screw everything so deep you’re hitting the goddamn prostate. If I have to be in deep, so do you, you smug little assdick.
> 
> You can’t even handle a simple fucking situation without adding layers and layers of Strider bullshit. You gotta complicate everything for yourself so much that half the time you’re just running around trying to clean up the shit you tracked into the room in the first damn place. Trying to handle the most basic of situations with your fucked-up brain is like running a race through a funhouse. You need to know how much you fucking blow. I hope someone knocks you to the ground. I hope you choke on robodick. I can’t tell you what you’re about to fuck up, but when it happens, I just want you to know I can’t stand you.
> 
> Fuck you,  
>  Dirk

Okay, not so mysterious after all. Why was he playing? This wasn't his first love letter to himself, so he couldn't exactly claim plausible deniability. Dirk shifted his shoulders, digging back into the mattress and flattening his body as he shifted the letter to one hand, using the other one to rub absently at his chest. He pressed his lips tightly together and read it again, and then again, dragging his fingers over his stomach and trying to catch enough nail to scratch as he heard his own voice in his head reciting the letter, telling him to choke. So much for getting rid of the morning moodiness, right? He chewed on his lip and then read it again, mouthing along with the words this time and really digging in with his fingers for good measure.

Maybe he should have spent a little more time wondering about how, exactly, he was about to fuck Future Dirk over, but who gave a shit about that guy anyway. Future Dirk was routinely a dick, and that wasn't anything new. Right now he could feel his heart beating in the balls of his feet as he told himself one more time to fucking gag on it, and _that_ was much more interesting than the rest of the angry hatespiral by some pathetic futuredouche.

He blinked, and when he opened his eyes he was looking at the sleazy Dersite rag once more. It was on the desk by his bed, and this time he made the decision to reach out and grab it.

Also by the bed: a pair of socks that he didn't remember putting there, but he chose to ignore those. Instead he read the magazine's headline, which said:

  


The brave Prince and Princess of Derse slumber peacefully in their palatial penthouses... but what heinous acts of espionage could be lurking under their very noses*?

an exhaustively researched investigative report by @WANT_MORE_SOCKS

Dersite citizens return safely to their homes each day, secure that their Prince and Rogue are safe as well, but is there a chance that the two youngsters could be in peril? Sources close to the two humans say that the danger is real, and ever-present!

As everyone knows, the Prince and the Rogue inhabit the top rooms of the tallest towers on Derse's moon. They sleep, waiting for the day when their Noble presence will be required to assist our King and Queen in future conflict. However, though they slumber high above, their rest is not easy, according to anonymous palace guards and several neighborhood eyewitnesses.

According to a palace official who wished to only be identified as a CONCERNED DENIZEN, the Prince and Rogue are frequent sleepwalkers. "There have been so many times when I've seen one, or both of them, floating on their way back up to their rooms. Once I saw the Prince close to a turret I happened to be guarding, and I asked him if he was alright. He said yes, and that he was sleepwalking, so I didn't concern myself anymore."

But should CD, and all other patriots of Derse, be concerned? Of course, the adventurous spirit of our Nobles is an excellent indication of their enterprising natures (you can be sure the royals of Prospit don't have the hearty constitutions needed to sustain such hotfoot tendencies!), but it could also lay them open to attacks from enemy agents. And given both the Rogue and the Prince's extensive skills, this is hardly surprising.

Yes, like a highly prized, valuable pair of socks, the Prince of Heart in particular is high on the enemy's list. Derse's resident royal extraordinaire is a modern wunderkind. His elaborately styled hair and aquiline features (as well as the Dersite-crested, hand-stitched socks!) make him the envy of dozens of his swooning loyal subjects. His extensive skills in battle, his amazing tactical ability, and above all, his noble bearing, all make him a target that the enemy would love to neutralize.

"The Prince's title is Prince," the same anonymous palace official went on to say. "Like, that's his class and aspect? I don't really get it, but since he was already a Prince of Derse before he was a Prince of whatever else, that makes him, like. Double princes, or something."

The palace would do well to make sure such a "doubly" valuable asset to our national defense and morale is protected... before the perfidious white shell menace takes the power out of their hands! ♟

(*FOOTNOTE: A nose is a cartilaginous protrusion on a human's face just above the mouth that contains their olfactory system.)

It was typical bullshit scaremongering, of course, though Dirk had to wonder how they knew all that stuff about him and Roxy. It seemed like a bad sign. He gave the newly appeared socks a wary look; at first he'd wondered if they were another present from his future self, given where his hand had been tending before he'd fallen asleep. Or...whatever he was right now.

Was he asleep? His mind provided an answer: no, he wasn't, he was still lying in bed, zoning out and this close to masturbating. Well shit.

For a second, all thoughts about the article were forgotten. He wondered if he'd just earned some kind of bilocation merit badge, or if something even weirder (and less dumb-sounding) was happening here.

He sat up, his purple-stockinged feet appearing in front of him. One thing he could say about that article: it had made him much more conscious of those. He put his shades on. No interface popped up, but of course it didn't. His shades on Derse didn't have an AR inside of them. He took a step forward. Every time he blinked he could see the fading sunlight peeking through his other bedroom window, but with each step he took he became more sure of himself. He was on Derse and there was no sun here. On Derse there was no such thing.

Before he could think too much about this, his attention was arrested once more by the article, and he gave it another quick read. Jesus, talk about yellow journalism. This shit was positively goldenrod. And with only one source in the entire piece of crap to boot.

One source... Dirk's eyes scanned the article quickly and landed on that source's psuedonym. Concerned Denizen. Right. Just who could that be?

He found himself slipping on his shoes and going to the window. He stepped up onto the ledge and took off outside, scanning the ground for the courtyard by the palace.

In the future, it was possible he would recognize this as the first time he was conscious in both places at once, but at the time he was just floating along, lost in thought. It occurred to him that the best way to silence the article's mysterious source would be to talk to the guy in person. Face to face. Man to... chess man. Whatever.

It also occurred to him that, given that he could still feel what he was doing back in his bedroom-- the bedroom on Earth, the one with the billiard ball sheets-- given how far south his hand was, now was probably not a good time for him to be sailing off. But really, fuck that. He wasn't so jaded by stoicism and his solitary lifestyle that flying wasn't cool shit. Really, not only was flying a trip, but he was also high on the novelty of being conscious of two things, two places at once. He could feel the breeze ruffling his hair as he sailed down the moon's chain, and the scrape of his fingernails over his own chest as he huddled in bed.

He'd been to the courtyard before, so he mostly sailed there on auto-pilot. In the meantime, though, he found his eyes drifting shut, and of course when he did so he was arrested by the way the other Dirk was clenching his fist in his T-shirt.

Back on earth, Dirk yanked his shirt up higher, tucking the fabric in a bunch under his chin. He'd let the letter drop to the mattress a few minutes ago, and since then he'd been imagining scenarios even more hypothetical and gutless than the ones where he somehow magically wound up in the same physical space as Jake. He shoved his shorts down over his hips to the middle of his thighs, trying to push away the random, intruding thoughts about chess men. Seriously, who gave a fuck about black carapace at a time like this, anyway?

"I hope someone knocks you to the ground," he mumbled to himself, reciting the line from the letter by memory this time and focusing intently on the stucco pattern above his head so that he wouldn't have to see the cobblestone of the Derse courtyard. He cleared his throat and said it again, louder and unaware that the other guy might be equally aware of what Dirk was doing, before dragging his hand down and sucking in a sharp breath.

Meanwhile, Dirk sucked in his own breath, clenching his teeth as his feet hit the stones of the courtyard. The ground had come up to meet him more quickly than he'd expected, and it made the breath catch in his throat which, unfortunately, didn't work well as a distraction from the hands (his _own fucking hands_ ) on his cock.

With a forced effort, he opened his eyes. He saw the Droll some ways away from him. The Droll was who Dirk had been looking for in the first place, of course, but the guy looked lost in his own conversation with... someone. Dirk wasn't focused enough to see who it was the Droll was talking to, but shit, _let_ him talk. Dirk wasn't up for any conversation with people who weren't himself at the moment. He closed his eyes and tried to will away the not-so-distant sensation of what the other Dirk-- what he was doing. "Not _now_ ," he said, his teeth still firmly clenched without his even noticing.

The backtalk was almost enough to throw Dirk's stroke out of whack. He hadn't expected that, but maybe he should've. The doucheprince was _him_ , one of him, after all. Maybe it was more surprising just to find that the other guy was conscious of him as well. In which case, it was his own fucking fault, wasn't it? How inconsiderate could you get, flying off on some ill-conceived reconnaissance mission when your other self is trying to get his swerve on? With, uh, himself?

He exhaled shallowly, determined not to stop at any cost. He wasn't going to let frilly nerd pajama Dirk ruin this for himself. "Man, you _knew_ what I was doing. You brought this on yourself, and ain't nobody surprised by that because isn't that exactly what you like to do? Fuck yourself over? Or maybe just fuck yourself." He punctuated the sentiment with a particularly brutal twist of his hand, forcing his mouth to drop open.

In the courtyard, Dirk had lost all the focus he'd managed to gain. "Fuck you and _fuck_ the horse you don't even deserve to ride in on." He voiced this thought aloud in something between a groan and a mumble.

He heard voices suddenly, voices that, blessedly, weren't his own. _Good_. Despite the rough way he was gripping his own dick, he was really fed up with his own fucking self right now. You'd think a guy with limitless time at the literal end of the fucking world would understand that there are times to pleasure yourself and times to let it _go_. Literally.

He almost groaned aloud again. He almost rocked his hips forward, actually, but he wrenched his eyes open before that could happen. When he did, he was staring at two people who were much closer than he had expected. One was the Droll, which wasn't surprising. Dirk had several hazy, dream-memories of talking to the Droll on similar outings in the past. The other carapacian was familiar too, in a much different way. Dirk had never seen the Archagent in person before, but the guy was in the newspaper a lot. Dirk had always pictured him being taller. Still, Dirk froze.

Jack might not have been that tall, and his smooth, shellacked face didn't betray much expression beyond a sort of scowl around the brow-area, but his eyes were narrow slits and they were regarding Dirk in a way that could only remind Dirk of the brushes he'd had with sharks while swimming. Not that Dirk had ever gotten close enough to a shark to study its eyes, but Jack's presence filled him with the same dread that he just wouldn't be able to swim (or float) away fast enough.

Another eerie certainty: the Droll might have been easy enough to fool, but Jack would not be so naive. Dirk would have to take the chance and close his eyes; his shades gave protection, but they could only hide so much. So Dirk closed his eyes but nearly let out a gasp again. The image back in the apartment was even more intense; he was still lying there jerking off. It was pure spite, Dirk realized with bitterness. It wasn't his own hand jacking him off, it was pure spite, and for a second he wasn't even thinking of future Dirk's letter; he really did want to knock his sorry excuse for a self down. He wanted to feed that motherfucker a fist right in the goddamn teeth and grind it in there so he'd really get the flavor.

He heard snippets of an unintelligible conversation in front of him. The Droll's high, piping voice was distinct from Jack's rasp, which was getting sharper every minute. It was a struggle for Dirk to pull his mind away from how his thumb was tugging on his foreskin. Despite the distractions, it was like Dirk had some wretched sixth sense that just _knew_ when sadistic chess men were about to pull out the knives.

But his other self was... still going strong. If anything, his extra-dimensional boner was getting worse. Mortal peril being an aphrodisiac was a discovery he could have gone without making today, that was for fucking sure.

Finally Dirk opened his eyes. Jack was staring right at him. Clearly, even as Derse's adored mascot, Dirk had worn out his welcome here. Time to go.

He could hear their voices still behind him as he made his discreet exit. He heard Jack say that, for a guy who was asleep, Dirk was really booking it. The queen, Jack said, should probably be informed about this. Maybe, Jack said, he should bring the Prince to her and display these astonishing abilities.

The unspoken sentiment in his voice was that if the Prince didn't feel like coming, Jack wouldn't mind convincing him.

Dirk really was booking it, meanwhile. There was a ledge out of the courtyard about 20 feet away. Relative safety, just 20 feet away. He heard the Droll saying, cheerfully, that no, that wasn't necessary. When the Prince was out, the Droll said, it was considered polite to just let him be on his way. The Prince was a poor conversationalist but a great listener, especially on the subject of hats, as evidenced by the news article the Archagent had undoubtedly seen this evening. Stabbing, the Droll said in a helpful and unworried tone, was considered very impolite.

Dirk turned his head just enough to see behind him, and it was only by the grace of the squid-gods that he managed not to jump, because Jack evidently hadn't taken the Droll's advice. Jack was right there, holding onto Dirk by the shoulder pad-epaulette of his fucking pajamas.

Perhaps more importantly, Jack had the second thing, after his scowl, that made him so easily-distinguishable: that fucking knife. It glimmered even in the perpetual gloom of Derse's courtyard, ready to be lodged squarely in Dirk's gut.

Even from the physical and mental distance from his comfy bed, it felt like both of his hearts had stopped beating and splashed down into his stomach, and both Dirks froze, willing their breathing to remain neutral. He had been getting pretty close-- so close that the surge of terror had almost finished him off-- but that sensation was rapidly draining away. As far as bonerkills go, Jack Noir with his knife out and pointy-ass teeth bared was pretty fucking deadly. Not that he wasn't deadly in the normal way, too. Yeah, twice the deadly, and if Dirk wasn't careful, he was liable to wind up twice as dead. He had no idea what would happen to Earth Dirk if Derse Dirk got cut to ribbons by this exoskeletoned psychopath, and frankly, neither of him was in the mood to find out.

He'd have to suck it up and work together with himself to get through this. Step one: let go of your dick, you moron. You can mourn the missed opportunity when you're back in your stupid tower. Dirk calmly let go of himself and folded his hands on his chest to monitor his breathing, and then he closed his eyes so that he could focus entirely on the situation out on Derse. If he really concentrated, he found that he could... push himself forward into the mind of the other guy and sort of predominate.

Jack was staring at him with a scowl and a heaping helping of suspicion, knife at the ready, presumably half a second away from deciding that circumstances were way too fishy to warrant anything but a righteous stabbing. Dirk could easily win a fight against this guy, but that would blow his cover. Fuck, if only he had access to AR's outcome probability feature, but his glasses were on the table and it would take more time than he had available to grab them. His heartbeat throbbed in his ears and his dick throbbed against his leg, and all of this was very distracting, but mostly he was filled with rage at the indignity of getting himself in this situation. Fortunately for him, the indignity wasn't over yet. No, Dirk had only one option at his disposal: exaggerated theatrics.

He let his shoulders hitch a little, and just as Jack started to lunge with the knife, Dirk flailed his arms suddenly, dislodging his shoulder from Jack's grip and knocking the knife out of Jack's other hand. To cover it up, he let loose a loud, obnoxious snore to rival anything that Roxy had ever cooked up in her entire dream life. This bought him a moment of mayhem and confusion-- Jack's eyes, usually barely slits in his hard carapace, got about as big with surprise as Dirk imagined they could get, which could be funny if he wasn't so terrified and pissed off and turned on-- which was all that he needed to float just a little bit farther, out of anyone's reach and back up toward the moon where he could at least suffer in peace.

As he floated off he chanced a glance back down at the courtyard. Jack had already gotten the knife back and was staring up at him with obvious annoyance. Join the fucking club, douche. Dirk sighed and took inventory of the situation as he continued to rise. So much for that fucking plan. He'd have to try the Droll on another day, assuming that this incident didn't cause another media frenzy. PRINCE AVOIDS CERTAIN DEATH BY THE FRILL OF HIS SOCKS, or some stupid thing. Whatever, that was Derse Dirk's problem.

Earth Dirk pulled back, letting go of his other self's mind and settling back into his own. He opened his eyes and saw only the glow of the morning sun on his white walls (though if he let his eyes go unfocused, he thought he might have seen a great and terrible tentacle squirming in the darkness). Fuck. His heartbeat had just been starting to come back to normal from the morning's dual excitement when it picked up again in anger, mostly at himself. Both of his selves. His earlier self for being so fucking reckless and impatient, and his dream self for being so cavalier as to think that he could have pulled something like that off. He should have _known_ that it was dangerous to go out when his attention was compromised. He should have _known_ that.

Mostly he was just pissed off because he had no idea whether the letter-- which he stood up and moved over to his desk to begin writing immediately, while his blood was still boiling-- constituted what his alien friend liked to call a "causal spoiler". Would he even have started jerking off if he hadn't gotten it? Was he, effectively, screwing his own self over right now by writing it?

Who the fuck cared. He had sentiments of seething hatred to express to the one person he couldn't even hurt anymore. Not without time travel, and he could believe in a lot of weird shit, but he wasn't sure that time travel was one of them, mostly because he'd never be that fucking lucky. Dirk set his teeth, gripped his pen, and began scribbling with black satisfaction.


End file.
